Society of the Mind

by Eric L. Harry

  His voice had a certain quality to it, commanding attention without raising its volume. It was clear, deeper in tone than the voices of ordinary men of his build and age. And his thoughts welled up in such a fluid fashion that they seemed rehearsed. But he spoke naturally. He seemed at ease.

  "Digital computers are very precise, which is good for tasks that involve numbers," he said. Laura listened more out of enjoyment of the experience than of the content. "But the best digital computer we've been able to produce can't surpass the information-processing capabilities of a three-year-old, and they never will. Digital computers are a dead end."

  Gray lapsed into silence and walked on with his hands thrust deep into his pockets.

  "You sound so sure," Laura finally said.

  He stopped and turned to face her. "This" — he held out his arms, but looked straight at her—"is not a digital world; it's purely analog. The brain that we humans possess evolved, therefore, to process analog information — not to crunch numbers. If your brain were a digital computer, you'd store a description of all the faces of the people you knew in a long list. Every time you saw your mother, you'd have to search that list of faces for a match before you recognized her. As you got older, and your list of faces grew, it would take you longer and longer to find that match and recognize your mother's face. But your brain's not digital. You don't have a list of faces, You have a network of highly interconnected neurons. When you see your mother's face, those connections in your brain recall not only her identity, but everything about her — instantly! Your love for her. Her warmth to you as a child. The smell of her perfume. The fact that her birthday is next week. Everything, all at once. And a neural network can retrieve all those things from just a sliver of data — the sight of your mother's face or the unmistakable tone of her voice as she calls out your name. Unlike digital computers, it excels at handling fragmentary data—'fuzzy' data."

  Laura's gaze shot up to Gray on his use of the word "fuzzy."

  Gray had been working on a neural network to solve "fuzzy" problems way back in the 80s.

  Could all this be the result, two decades later? she wondered, recalling the milestones of Gray's biography. His prediction of market demand for PVCs in 1984—his first billion. His prediction of the great stock market crash of 1987—tens of billions in wealth. His cornering of the high-definition TV market. The neural network he'd been developing was intended to discern patterns — to aid in market analysis.

  Laura was suddenly so keyed up — so absorbed in the intriguing possibilities — she hadn't noticed that Gray had fallen silent.

  Their eyes met briefly, causing Laura's skin to tingle eerily. It was irrational, she realized, but in that momentary look she felt as if she'd been touched. Not physically, but mentally — as if he had peered behind the curtain to share in her innermost thoughts. As if in his look he'd said, "I know what you're thinking." It was unnerving, and it scattered those thoughts to the wind.

  When he continued, he spoke quietly, softly — as if not to jar Laura from her reverie. "Something special happened. Something magical."

  Without knowing why, Laura had to muster her energy to ask, "What?" It was energy she used to brace herself for his answer.

  "It learns," he said simply. Her first reaction was disappointment. She had prepared herself for something more, and her expectations weren't met. That initial reaction, however, changed with every word he spoke. "It generalizes, Laura. But when it generalizes, it does so by analogy not to the human world, but to the new world in which it exists. We missed it! When the computer first concluded that a wire is to electricity like a vein is to blood, we rolled our eyes and moved on. Its intelligence began to transcend our own. And that's because, you see, it was freed of this… shell," Gray said, looking down at his body, "and with it was freed of the limitations of our perspective — our experiences in life."

  Laura was afraid to look at him now. Afraid that her face might betray some private thought or feeling. Afraid that his might betray something she didn't want to see. Her mouth was dry when she asked, "What exactly are you saying?"

  "I'm saying we've entered a new phase."

  He raised an arm and pointed. She was more interested in the man — in his face. "There's one of our robots right there."

  Laura peered out across the lawn to see the distant headlights of an approaching vehicle. She found herself wondering what connection Gray saw between the new phase and his sudden sighting of the robot.

  Laura suddenly felt as if she were with the only other person on the earth. Alone amid the brightly lit objects that had sprung directly from his imagination. But it wasn't as if he were the only other person, she realized. It was as if he were at the center of the world that had sprung from his mind and now rose from the flat fields all around. The world that she had now entered.

  Gray continued his walk toward the assembly building. "We made a discovery," he said. His voice again chased away Laura's thoughts. "To develop intelligence, we had to give the computer mobility. We had to give it the ability to explore the physical world. To pick objects up. To break them. To develop a 'feel' for all the laws of nature that we take for granted. Mobility — that's the key… in more ways than one."

  He sighed. "We're operational with Model Sevens. The first two models were experimental. Then came the Model Threes, which are those cars we ride around the island in. Models Four and Five have been retired or immobilized as limited-sequence robots along the assembly line. Finally came the Model Sixes and Sevens. We've got a couple hundred Model Sixes that are still in use, and we're up to over a hundred Model Sevens."

  He raised his arm again and pointed to their left. "That one's a Six."

  It was still a great distance away, and Laura could see nothing save a vehicle with a pair of closely set headlights and a flashing beacon on top. It was driving along the field straight their way. A faint hum like that of a lawnmower could be heard.

  They were walking toward a point that would intersect the path followed by the robot. Laura studied the [garbled] approached.

  Its ability to mow grass at thirty miles per hour seemed less impressive than the driverless cars of the earlier generation.

  "Both the Sixes and Sevens were designed entirely by the computer. And the computer itself is, for the most part, designed by itself. We know pretty much how the hardware works. What's revolutionary is the software."

  When the Model Six was about a hundred yards away, the noise of the mower was cut. The wheeled robot had halted. A large, centrally mounted arm lifted a rigid bag high into the air. By snagging the bottom of the bag on the lip of its towed bin, the robot managed to turn the unwieldy bag over. Grass cuttings poured into the bin. A light shone down from atop the superstructure — the robot's "head" and the arm tilted the bag up so the light shone inside. Some cuttings were obviously caught inside. To dislodge them, the robot turned the bag upside down again and shook. It then repeated the inspection with the light. On the third try it slammed the bag down, which apparently did the trick. The robot resumed its course — the mower's growl first rising, then falling upon contact with uncut grass.

  That showed logical problem-solving, Laura thought. Out of the blue Laura felt a rushing sensation like she was shot along a path for which she was unprepared. She grew chilled as the implications of what she'd observed sunk in. Had they taught it to bang the bag like that, or had it learned on its own?

  For the first time, Laura inspected the lights atop the robot.

  There was no flashing beacon on its "head" as she had thought. There were a pair of lights mounted atop the machine flitting independently about the ground in rapid jerks. Jumping from one patch of grass to another, the high-intensity beams ranged in jittery motions across a broad arc in front of the vehicle, shifting in almost nervous agitation several times every second. The lights were searching the field along the robot's path.

  Laura headed down the paved walkway toward the robot, watching the spectacle of its highl
y coordinated movements as it neared. Gray followed her now. When they were about twenty yards away, the brilliant lights atop the robot locked onto them. Laura stopped and raised her hand to shield her eyes. The robot's mower shut off completely — the whir of the blades quickly winding down.

  A few moments later, the twin searchlights were extinguished.

  All was quiet now. Laura stared at the motionless robot. The two housings encasing the lights remained trained on them.

  "Mr. Gray," a voice boomed from some unseen loudspeaker behind them, "please report to the computer center."

  The announcement echoed across the field, and Gray turned and said, "I guess we'll do our tour of the assembly building later this evening."

  He turned and gently ushered Laura back toward the bunker. She still stared at the darkened, motionless machine over her shoulder.

  She couldn't shake the feeling that despite its apparent inactivity, it stared back at her as well.

  As soon as they turned, the light illuminated them again — their figures casting long shadows along the walkway in the high-intensity beams. The skin on Laura's back crawled. They were being watched.

  The lights moved on, and the mower started up.

  Laura couldn't resist another glance over her shoulder. The robot's single long arm stretched out in front of its carriage as both lights focused on a fixed patch of earth ahead — and a piece of trash just beside the walkway. Laura stopped to watch. As the robot passed the illuminated focus of its attention, the arm snapped at the ground with surprising speed. Continuing on, the robot crossed the road and held its closed claw up to the lights, rotating its trophy first left, then right. Following the inspection, it casually reached back and tossed the trash into the towed bin. It didn't have to look back, Laura noticed. It knew where the bin was.

  Gray stood beside her in silence, his face an inscrutable mask.

  "That was really amazing!" Laura said.

  Slowly, the corners of his lips curled and his expression — his entire manner — softened. The thin streaks of blazing artificial light flickered in his dark but smiling eyes.

  He turned and headed for the bunker. Laura followed him down the steps to the metal door — searching for clues in the expression of the silent and enigmatic genius.

  10

  Gray stared into a peephole at the entrance to the computer center. A metallic popping sound emanated from deep within the concrete. He straightened, and with a rumble the ponderous door began to recede into the wall. Eyeing the stainless steel mechanisms protruding from the doorframe, Laura first thought the place was built like a vault. Or a blast shelter, she decided on further reflection.

  The foot-thick slab of metal thudded firmly into place, and a lighter inner door hissed and briskly slid open. A dimly lit room lay ahead. Through its center was a narrow, metal gangplank which had two railings running from one side to the other. Laura followed the silent Gray into the compartment, feeling in the pinch of her throat, the shallowness of her breathing, and the thump of her heart the return of an overwhelming unease. Gray halted halfway across the gangplank, which was suspended in air inside the black metal chamber.

  The sound of compressed air accompanied the closing of the compartment's exit. Through the walls Laura could hear the vault door closing as well. She searched the recesses of the dark chamber for clues as to its purpose. The floors, walls, and ceiling were black metal slats — the angles all directed toward the slender catwalk.

  Laura waited for Gray to proceed, but he stood lost in thought — one hand firmly gripping the railing.

  "Oh," he said, "I should mention that the computer center is semi-clean. We have to minimize dust, you understand." A buzzer sounded, and a screen ahead glowed red with the words "Blowers Activated." A rapid series of clacks sounded from behind the grates that surrounded them. Gray shouted, "You might want to hold onto…!" — his last words drowned out by the whine.

  The wind hit her with gale force, popping her ears with the sudden change in pressure. Gray was shouting something. They were standing in a howling wind tunnel, but the wind buffeted them equally from all sides at once. Laura's hair lashed wildly across her face, combining with the windstorm to force her eyes closed. She reached up to pull a long strand from her mouth. She should have reached down.

  Tendrils of air snaked under her dress. They forced their way upward — buffeting gusts along bare skin. The belt of her smock caught on her breasts, and she grabbed the billowing fabric and pressed down.

  The light dress resisted all efforts, and she clamped one hand down in front, one in back.

  As quickly as it had started, the storm was over. The smock settled gently into place around her thighs, and Laura opened her eyes into a thick sea of hair. She reached up to pull the mane from her face — the hair attracted to her palm by static electricity. The first thing she saw was Gray, who flashed her a sickly grin of apology. His hair stood wildly on end — tiny points like horns sticking out in all directions.

  Laura broke out laughing, covering her mouth with her hand to stifle what degenerated into a series of ungraceful chortles. She managed "Sorry" while holding her hair off her forehead, the other hand pinning her mouth firmly closed.

  She swept her hair back and straightened her shoulders, fully composed now. "That was a pleasant surprise."

  Gray raked his fingers through his hair and shrugged. "Not very many people wear dresses down here."

  The screen on the wall ahead changed displays. "Welcome" now glowed in cheery green letters, and a hissing sound announced the opening of the door. Bright light from the room ahead flooded the cramped compartment.

  Laura followed Gray into the large room, which swirled with the activity of over a dozen busy people. They appeared to be technicians working at row after row of consoles. It felt all of a sudden to Laura as if she had stepped onto a great spaceship in some far-distant future. All was antiseptic — white panels or glowing, multi-windowed screens. Wall-sized monitors were alive with bar charts bouncing rhythmically to an unheard and discordant beat. Windows exploded with numbers, and diagrams, and glorious graphics that reminded Laura most of some psychedelic light show.

  Gray was looking at her, and she turned to him. She laughed, grinning stupidly from ear to ear. "Wow" was all she could think to say.

  Gray stepped up to a vanity just inside the entrance and began to comb his hair. Laura took one look at herself in the mirror, and reached instantly for the complimentary "Gray Corporation" brush.

  "If you want a sweater or a jacket or something," Gray said, "just let an operator know. We've tried to fix the heating problem several times, but it never seems to do the trick. It's the superconducting electronics. They're cooled by liquid nitrogen."

  The brisk air was invigorating after their walk through the warm Pacific night. Besides, Laura was too fascinated by the spectacle to pay much attention to the chill. The confident fingers of the technicians flew tapping keys or spinning trackballs. Some wore ultra-light headphones, in constant communication with a cohort seated across the room or on the other side of the globe, she couldn't tell which. Vibrant colors popped open on crisp thirty-inch monitors like genies bursting from lamps. There was nothing government-surplus here.

  All was right on the razor's edge. It was a scout ship hurtling centuries ahead of mankind.

  Gray tapped a small black mat mounted to the wall by the vanity.

  "Please touch before entering" was written on a bright red placard above it. Laura casually complied — a painful snap stinging her fingertips.

  "Ow!" she mouthed, rubbing her fingers with her thumb.

  "Sorry," Gray said feebly. He waited beside her before the marvels of the room.

  "What's this?" Laura asked, standing rooted to the spot in total awe.

  "It's the operations room of the main computer."

  She nodded over and over in response while gawking. "Oh," she finally said.

  Gray led her through the maze of workstations. Most
of the technicians were men, and none, Laura noticed, looked up to return her gaze.

  Instead, they glanced furtively her way just after she'd passed like boys in the hallway in high school. Gray, too, noticed the odd behavior. "Most of my computer people are fairly intense types," he said by way of explanation.

  They passed consoles on which sat two-liter plastic bottles half-filled with generic orange soda. Industrial-sized bags of cheese puffs and pretzels and popcorn lay open in Gray's semi-clean command ship.

  Decals adorned monitors with slogans like "Legalize Marijuana" or pictures of the starship Enterprise. Some of the technicians' headphones, Laura realized, played music at high volumes.

  That music ran the gamut from classical to head-banger. The people who listened to the music ran the gamut too.

  Almost everyone wore thick sweaters of one sort or another. It was what they wore underneath that distinguished one man from the next.

  Laura marveled at the parade of fashions — at the short-sleeved dress shirts sporting pocket protection and the tie-dyed T-shirts and the orange polyester bell-bottoms circa the disco era.

  Many seemed permanently hunchbacked as they sat slumped over their consoles. Others were laid back in their padded leather chairs.

  One had his feet propped higher than his head and an oversized digitizer balanced comfortably across his lap. The brilliant colors of their computer screens glinted off the thick lenses of their eyeglasses, which were held securely in place by no-nonsense frames.